


Demon

by lmeden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:25:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/lmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim’s phone never stops ringing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demon

**Author's Note:**

> For bcandmf.

Jim’s phone never stops ringing. 

Generally, this means that he keeps it on vibrate. 

The calls aren’t important. It’s the phone numbers that he uses later, looking them up to see who called, deducing what want based on the information they leave scattered behind them like discarded fashions. Jim doesn’t listen to his messages – he hacks into his callers’ lives and then _he_ calls _them_. 

And he doesn’t give them what they want, he gives them what they need. It’s his own personal service to humanity. 

The texts, though, they are important. No one likes to text at the first meeting (so predictable, so _normal_ ), so the texts are always interesting. Right now, he thumbs through them – old, old, old _old_.

It is exhausting to have nothing new to do. He’d thought it would be a relief to have the Holmes brothers off his tail (though they had been _so_ much fun for a time), thought that he would be able to relax and clean up his organization, move on to bigger and grander things, maybe take a bit of a vacation; he’d have gone to the Mediterranean Coast, but he did hate the French so, and the Spanish were just, well. 

Jim sighs down at his phone. Maybe he shouldn’t have faked his own death after all. Now that everyone thinks he’s dead and he hasn’t informed them otherwise, he gets no calls, no texts, has _absolutely nothing_ to do. 

“Ah!” he cries, purely frustration, and leans back in his seat. He can feel the rest of the patrons in the café glance towards him and then quickly away, afraid to be caught staring. 

Fools. He’s the one they should be looking at, the one they should be thinking about. _He_ is the one they should fear.

A tiny smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and just then his phone chimes. Jim jolts, half flailing with surprise as he sits up and hunches over his. 

A _text_.

With shaking fingers, he unlocks the phone and pulls it up.

> _Found. You.  
>  SH_  
> 

He is smiling, his grin so wide it hurts, as he looks up and out the café windows, up and down the street. His heart pounds wildly, caught between joy and paranoia, and his eyes bulge, twitching as he searches.

He _knew_ it. Not dead, not dead at all! Just as alive as Jim and moreso because he’d been working, searching, not bored at all. And why hadn’t Jim searched? Why had he given in to the evidence of his own eyes, believed what he’d seen; he’d been foolish and stupid and _oh_. 

Where _is_ he?

Jim pushes out of his seat, presses himself against the window. He is here, he must be here. He’s _watching_ Jim. 

_Where is Sherlock Holmes?_

He keens against the glass and the phone clatters to the floor. He doesn’t hear it, thinks, _there_ , gaze fixing upon a patch of shadows across the street. Jim laughs, and moves. 

The cameras tilt to follow him.


End file.
